


Welcome to Shady Acres

by mudgems



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Dementia, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Humor, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Loki (Marvel) Feels, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Loki (Marvel)-centric, Loki is not a hero, Magic, Mind Manipulation, Mischief, Missing Scene, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, POV Second Person, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Pre-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Unreliable Narrator, Warning: Loki (Marvel), artificially induced, but it's complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 17:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21360010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudgems/pseuds/mudgems
Summary: “Any hobbies?”The son leans over slightly to smile down at his step-father, one hand placed on his shoulder. “You do like a good game, don’t you?”Loki drops Odin off at the rest home.
Relationships: Loki & Odin (Marvel)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 64





	Welcome to Shady Acres

It’s not every day your mundane routine is elevated beyond its usual, if necessary, enforced calm. 

Excitement is very much to be avoided here. The highlights are simple. Plain. Wholesome. You look forward to a pleasant yet artificial conversation with a delivery person; a brief but welcome spark of real memory from one of the residents; the rare appearance of Susan’s artisan pastries. Mostly your work is predictable and without surprises. You do not hope for more.

It would be inappropriate in a workplace such as yours, but every now and again you almost crave a little chaos. You’re not without a sense of rebellion.

You did not expect it to arrive today, but then you suppose that is the nature of the beast.

You’re jotting down the last few details of the phone message you’ve just taken when the doors groan open to admit a wheelchair, in which is seated an elderly gentleman. He is dressed casually but smartly. His white beard and neatly combed hair lends him a distinguished air, as does the tasteful patch over one eye. His left hand shakes where it clutches at the armrest and his gaze wanders without really seeing anything.

The chair is guided through the doors by a tall, slender man who looks like something straight from the pages of a magazine. His loose hair brushes his shoulders and matches the entirely black suit he wears. He carries himself with a self-assurance you find it difficult to look away from.

He studies the display lining the entrance hall with amused approval as he walks towards you. It wasn’t your idea but you admit it lends a bit of colour to the place, and it’s become something of a tradition. Currently it’s a collection of cheerful paper flowers, some considerably more sophisticated than others; one of the spring-themed art projects lately completed in the activity room. He stops briefly at the large group photo pinned among the safety briefings and bulletins. In it a number of the residents are seated among a group of schoolchildren, a visit that seemed to benefit both the visitors and those they came to entertain. 

The man’s nose wrinkles as he examines the picture. He looks positively delighted by it.

Chuckling to himself, he continues towards you with cheerful confidence, pausing with a gracious incline of his head to allow two ladies to pass sedately in front of him. He does not seem to mind that they do not acknowledge him. If anything the playful glint in his eye shines the brighter.

There’s something about this person that immediately piques your interest. And what’s more, he’s not exactly hard on the eyes. You’re covering for Patrick today, and this guy is just his type. 

When you tell him what he’s missed he’s going to _spit_. The thought makes you smug and not a little bit pleased with yourself.

But you let none of this show of course. You’re a professional, and you know what you’re about.

“Good morning,” you greet them both, and the smile the tall man returns is dazzling.

“Isn’t it just?”

You are instantly charmed. 

Before you can properly greet your visitor, you are distracted by the sight of Mrs Olsen making her way towards the desk, and a brief glance does not reveal the whereabouts of her usual carer. 

With only a ponderous turn of speed, Mrs Olsen soon reaches the front desk and inserts herself neatly into the scene.

The man’s attention turns from you to the hand that has been laid on his arm, then to the face smiling up at him from his side.

“George,” Mrs Olsen admonishes with affectionate exasperation. “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you. I’m ready to go home now.”

“Hello,” the man replies with easy warmth, not at all put out by this. He pats the hand at his sleeve but doesn’t correct the error as others often do.

Mrs Olsen has been mistaking visitors for her late husband for some years now.

You spot Jennie emerging from the far door. She hurries over, mouthing the word ‘sorry’ to you as she walks. When she reaches the desk she offers the man an apologetic smile. “Now, Betty,” she says gently, taking Mrs Olsen’s elbow with practised patience. She begins to steer her charge back towards the common area. “Why don’t we let this young man get back to his day.”

“It was lovely to see you,” the man tells Mrs Olsen as she is drawn reluctantly away, and the anxiety clears from her face for hearing it.

Yes. You like this man immediately.

He turns his attention back to you and you share an unspoken thought for the moment you’ve just been party to. There is something vaguely familiar about him, but your mind slides away from questioning this before you can fully grasp the thought.

“Visiting someone?” you ask. You hope it’s Mrs Lowe. She’s new, which means visits are likely to be regular, at least at first.

“Checking in, actually.”

This catches you off guard. “Oh,” you say, not at all prepared to contradict the man outright. There’s obviously been a mistake, but it wouldn’t do to embarrass the man without going through the motions. “I’m sorry,” you say with a polite smile, “I wasn’t expecting you. Let me just check my paperwork.”

“Of course, it’s all well in hand,” he replies with easy grace, and this prompts you to give him the benefit of the doubt, just in case. “Thank you...” his eyes flick to the badge on your blouse and when he pronounces your name he does so with deliberate care. “Deliah.”

Turning to the gentleman in the wheelchair, you extend your usual courtesies. “Welcome to Shady Acres, Mr…”

“Borsson,” his son supplies. You turn somewhat dubiously to the cabinets behind the reception desk.

When you look through the tray for today’s intake, you’re surprised to find Mr Borsson’s new resident paperwork already attached to a clipboard. You’re not sure you remember seeing this, and you’re usually diligent about familiarising yourself with the day’s schedule whenever you start your shift.

Come to think of it, you’re also not sure you can recall meeting these people before. Or even hearing of the incipient arrival from your colleagues. You do your best to disguise a slight frown. The man before you smiles at you pleasantly.

It’s unusual, you suppose, but not beyond the realms of possibility. The more you think about it, the less inclined you are to question it. There’s a vacancy, now that Mrs Bates has been moved to a specialist care facility upstate. You decide not to bother consulting the waiting list. You should prioritise this new admission. 

“Did you go through orientation with Patrick?” you ask as you take out your pen, only mildly curious. Perhaps that would explain it. You were on leave for a couple of days earlier this month, after all...

The man doesn’t exactly nod, but the way he inclines his head suggests agreement. “We’re only recently arrived, you see,” he explains. “All very last minute.”

English, you’d guess. You’ve never been there, but you have an ear for accents. You’re delighted; the girls on the evening shift will get a kick out of this when it comes to visiting time. 

You’re beginning to fill in the paperwork when Mr Borsson speaks, his tone at once imperious and bewildered.

“Why have you brought me here? Where am I?”

The son takes this in stride, a calm answer ready. “This is your new home. Just like we discussed.”

The incredulous look Mr Borsson produces at this is eloquent in its disdain. “Home!?”

“Now now, there’s no need to be rude.” The man bends down to straighten his father’s collar, neatening and refastening a loosened top button and brushing away some stray, invisible lint. “Try to see this as an opportunity. Think of the new experiences. The people you’ll meet. You’ll be well looked after. And you won’t have to worry about a thing back home. Time for a rest, hmm?”

“This isn’t right, this isn’t right…” Mr Borsson tails off, mumbling to himself, becoming more distressed as he does. “I don’t belong here,” you think you catch at one point.

“Don’t go getting yourself worked up now,” his son tells him with good-natured patience, patting a long-fingered hand on the gentleman’s shoulder.

Mr Borsson jerks at this contact and swivels where he sits, levelling a suspicious look on his son. “Who are you?”

“You know perfectly well who I am.”

“I don’t know who you are,” the gentleman insists. He turns to you. “I don’t know who this man is. He won’t tell me who he is.”

It’s clear the poor gent is becoming overwrought. It’s not your place to reassure him, not with a member of his family present, nor while you’re still a complete stranger, but you try to extend some kindness where you can.

“Perhaps you’d like to join some of our residents in the dining area,” you suggest gently. “Tonight is meatloaf night, and I hear dessert is one of chef’s favourites. How does pie sound?”

“He’s trying to kill me,” Mr Borsson tells you plaintively, then turns back to his son with sudden anger. “You’re not my son,” he concludes vehemently. 

The man leans back rather sharply, a cool expression settling over his face.

Despite your many years in elder care, your heart still clenches to witness this exchange. You’ve seen this sort of reaction countless times before. It’s natural to be upset, to focus that pain on the person delivering the strike. To lay blame where, rationally, you know there should be none. It is hard to watch a parent forget you, or to change beyond recognition. It is hard to remain patient and forgiving in the face of it.

Often the heart’s defence is to distance itself, and to the inexperienced this can seem cold. You find it understandable.

It is better than the anger that can precede it, and it’s vastly preferably to the display of playful embarrassment some people feign. They try to draw you into the charade when that happens. To connect to you in a conspiracy of humiliation you find slightly cowardly. Silly old thing, they seem to say with their eye rolls and indulgent smiles, the shame of their actions and the guilt underneath barely hidden by the front. As if there’s anything even remotely light-hearted about a loved one causing a scene in front of a stranger. As if there’s anything to laugh at as years of love and respect wither and unravel before your very eyes.

It’s part of what can make this job so hard, sometimes. But also all the more important. It wasn’t your first choice, admittedly, but you’re good at your job and you’re proud of the work you do here. Some use the term ‘calling’ when explaining their profession for those who question the dedication required (_you’re so strong, thank God there are people like you, I don’t think I could do it, God bless you_), but you don’t have such illusions about yourself. You’ll settle for determination to describe your motivation for staying. If you can offer just a small measure of understanding, you’ll count yourself among those making a difference.

To the man’s credit, he does not fall back on this much-abused coping mechanism. It’s as though you have ceased to exist for him entirely. 

Dementia is a thief and a liar -- it steals a person’s future and sours the past, and worst of all it strikes at those closest to us with hurtful untruths. You do not doubt the pain these words have inflicted, though this man is brave in the face of it. You will not condescend with unwelcome sympathy, but instead follow your training and many years' hard won experience.

“I understand this can be a difficult transition,” you reassure as the man takes a moment to collect himself. “Let’s get the formalities out of the way and we can get your father settled.” 

“He’s not my father,” he interrupts crisply, and something about the way he says it wrong-foots you.

“Oh,” you stammer, “I beg your pardon--”

Almost instantly the man's bearing switches back to polite, the change dizzying and unsettling. “Think nothing of it,” he says as though waving it away, once again ready with a pleasant and easy smile. “You’re not the first to assume so -- it’s a common error.”

There’s the flicker of something significant there, and you can’t help a small frown. He quirks his lips as though in on some joke and you’re pretty sure it’s at your expense. He leans toward you as though to impart some confidence, and the feeling quickly subsides. “You could say he’s more like a step-father,” he tells you, and the situation starts to make more sense.

“I see,” you say, and you think perhaps you do. There is clearly a history here that is far from straight-forward. 

“If I could just ask you to sign the admission forms…” You indicate the relevant sections for signatures and initials, sliding the necessary papers to him one by one. The nib of his pen -- fountain ink, you notice, drawn from a breast pocket -- sweeps across the pages in elegant, cursive lines.

“I notice you’ve left out some details on your step-father’s admission sheet,” you say. “It helps for us to know a little more about our residents’ backgrounds as we get them settled. Helps us anticipate their preferences, interests, likes and dislikes. Might I ask -- what was Mr. Borsson’s occupation?”

There’s a tightness to the man’s expression that you don’t think you’re imagining.

“My… step-father was something of a tactician. He fought in many conflicts.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” you enthuse. “We have several veterans here. Mr Carter is ex-air force, and Mr Jackson fought in Vietnam.”

You wonder privately if this is how the poor man lost his eye. Wounded on tour, perhaps. “Where is it you were posted?” you ask Mr Borrson, and he stares back at you with a watery gaze.

His son clears his throat. “Something of a delicate subject,” he says with some regret. “And I’m afraid his memory isn’t quite what it was.”

“No, of course,” you hurry to amend. You turn again to Mr Borsson, although his attention appears to be wandering. “We thank you for your service,” you tell him.

The silence that follows is slightly awkward, so you hurry to change the subject. “Any hobbies?”

The son leans over slightly to smile down at his step-father, one hand placed on his shoulder. “You do like a good game, don’t you?”

His amusement remains even as he turns to you, and you can’t help returning that almost mischievous smile with a somewhat bemused one of your own. You jot down _board games_ on the blank space provided and resolve to discover more about what might interest your new resident with some gentle encouragement at the next opportune moment.

A thought occurs to you.

“We have a lovely group of ladies who come once a fortnight to read to the residents. Short stories mostly. But sometimes novels over longer periods too. Mrs Price and her reading companion have been working their way through _Pride and Prejudice_ now for the last couple of months.” You look to the man in the chair, but going by the glassiness to his eye you judge your question best posed to his son. Or whatever relation the man before you is to your new resident. “Does that sound like something Mr Borsson might enjoy?”

“Oh yes. He’s spun quite the tale in his time.”

Wonderful. You add _storytelling circle_ to the same box in your small, neat handwriting.

It’s funny, but you’re almost certain resident intake is usually more prolonged than this. It’s quite involved, and there are of course the delicate matters of finances to arrange, medicals, legal paperwork and the like. And yet when you glance again at the form you see all seems to be in order. You feel relieved. There’s nothing to worry about after all.

One of the orderlies passes through the reception area, and with a quick wave you summon him to join you. 

“Jacob, would you mind showing Mr Borsson to his room? Number 23.” _Mrs Bates’ old room_ is the unspoken inference.

“No problem,” Jacob replies, his natural personability coming immediately to the fore. He takes the handles of Mr Borsson’s chair from the son’s grip with a polite nod.

This can often be the hardest part for relatives. You do not want to linger here, yet your much-rehearsed script suddenly deserts you. 

You’re certain you’ve asked the man’s name, but you can’t for the life of you remember what it is. You feel too embarrassed to ask it again now, not this far into the conversation. And you’re too flustered to check the admission form for next of kin information while he’s still here in front of you. He’d almost certainly notice what you were doing if you tried to look and that thought makes you unaccountably nervous. You don’t know how you know this, but you do. With a twinge of apprehension you hope you’ll be able to get away with addressing him as ‘sir’ if it comes to it. 

It doesn’t.

“This is where we part ways,” the man says to his father (not-father), his voice pitched in such a way as to make you suspicious of its cheerful sincerity. “Rather fitting given our beginnings. I’m sure you’d appreciate the irony if you could.”

A strange parting comment, but you pay it no mind.

With a nod you send Jacob on his way, and he strikes up a cheerful, one-sided conversation with his charge as he steers the wheelchair away.

The son turns to you after a few moments watching his father’s departure and is rather more solemn when he speaks again. “I entrust him to your care.”

It seems that will be all the small talk there is to be expected.

With that single comment he turns to leave, pausing only briefly when you call out to him.

“He’s in good hands,” you say for lack of anything better, and with the barest nod at his shoulder he strides from your presence the way he came.

As the automated doors pull shut behind him, you are left without any doubt that you will never see that man again. You at last check the pages of the form still in your hands, and on the cover sheet you see clearly what you failed to notice before.

The details for next of kin remain startlingly blank. 

And the contact information is empty.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read! If you’d like to come and say hello you can find me on Tumblr as [mudgemsfic](https://mudgemsfic.tumblr.com/).


End file.
